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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27733582">Would you please fucking remember me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotusorlilith/pseuds/lotusorlilith'>lotusorlilith</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Ancient Greek Religion &amp; Lore, Circe - Madeline Miller, The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, F/M, Inspired by The Invisible Life of Addie Larue, M/M, they switch!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:28:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,874</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27733582</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotusorlilith/pseuds/lotusorlilith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In exchange for Achilles to live again, Patroclus is cursed to live forever and be forgotten by Achilles in each and every of the latter's lives.<br/>Until 3000 years and a dozen reincarnations later, Achilles meets his alarmingly attractive history professor and a name slips out of his lips.  (might be a slow burn but HAPPY ENDING is GUARANTEED!)</p><p>As for topping/bottoming, they switch!</p><p>If you are only here for sex scenes: chapter 3</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Achilles &amp; Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Briseis &amp; Deidameia (Song of Achilles), Circe/Hermes (Circe)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Witch Goddess of Aiaia rests in her silver chair, the molten bronze of her hair shimmers in the descending dusk. She studies the boy kneeling before her. The weightless clasp on her knee, the translucent gaze into her eyes. A ghost. A supplicant.<br/>
“It cannot be done.”<br/>
“Why?”<br/>
The eagerness in his tone made Circe’s eyes flicker, as if reminded her of someone long ago.<br/>
“You asked me to make him live again, yet you could have just gone to the Underworld.”<br/>
“Just me and him, living forever among the shades? To see his glory forever veiled by the impenetrable Death?”<br/>
“Why not?” Circe’s gaze is silvery and emotionless. She is a Goddess, an immortal. Someone who has seen youth wither and kingdoms fall more times than they care to remember.<br/>
“He deserves a better life, one that is whole and happy.”<br/>
“He was Aristos Achion. He had his share of glory.”<br/>
Patroclus’ gaze lowers, “But not his share of happiness.”<br/>
Circe raises a cup to touch her lips, “Odysseus wasn’t wrong about you. I would help you if I could, but no god can walk the realm of Death, except for -”<br/>
“ – Me,” says a voice sly as a snake. A gleaming young man leans against the door frame.<br/>
Herb magic flickers between Circe’s fingers. She squints, “I no longer welcome your visit.”<br/>
“Oh, daughter of Helios, still not over me after a millennium,” he picks up a silver goblet from Circe’s table and drinks.<br/>
Circe raises an eyebrow. Pigs squeal in her backyard.<br/>
“Now, before my old lover turns me into swine -” Hermes raises the goblet to the supplicating ghost, “Patroclus. Oh, yes, I do know you. Slayer of poor Sarpedon, huh?”<br/>
“I’m -”<br/>
“Oh, don’t you worry, ” Hermes smiles, “I have dozens of half-siblings to spare. I come to make an offer.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>350 BC, Pelion.</p><p>Achilles opens his eyes. The sky is cerulean, with streaks of pale sunlight oozing through the clouds. The cold breezes brush his cheeks, alleviating the burning heat inside of his chest. He feels disoriented. If this is the House of Hades, no wonder why Persephone ate the pomegranate seeds.</p><p><br/>
“Don’t move,” says a voice gentle as a whisper. Achilles realizes his head is resting on someone’s lap. He fumbles to sit up, and proceeds to freeze completely when he sees the young man’s hazel eyes and dark hair, his shiny bronze muscles and the infinitesimally small movement of the corner of his eyes when his gaze shifts to meet Achilles’. Snowflakes melts on his eyelashes as the man speaks, “Easy. The snow reduces your fever.”</p><p>The snow.</p><p>The man smiles, “It’s been over ten years. I never thought I would be back.”</p><p>Before Achilles says anything, the young man bends down and rests his forehead on Achilles’. Achilles stares, wide-eyed, stunned by the action, "What are you -"</p><p>The man murmurs, “The fever’s subsided.” His breath brushes against Achilles’ neck, his soft dark curls almost tangle with his. “We could go inside now.”</p><p>The cave looks almost exactly the same as in memory. The fire burns bright, casting shadows like wobbly caricatures on the walls. Except –</p><p>“Why is my pallet twice as large as I remembered?”</p><p>“Because what you remember is wrong,” the young man says with a perfectly neutral tone, as if discussing the difference between a javelin and a spear, “We used to fuck in that all day long.”</p><p>Achilles, with his godsend agility and grace, would have tripped over if the man did not grab him by his shoulders.</p><p>“Easy, you’ve still got a hole in your chest,” the man raises an eyebrow as he walks Achilles to a bathtub, “Sit here. I’ll fetch the water.”</p><p>“What’s your name?” Achilles asks.</p><p>The man is pouring hot water that smells of healing herbs into the tub. He pauses, and for a moment he clearly wants to toss the barrel away.</p><p>“Hermes, I didn’t know it would hurt this much,” he groans.</p><p>“Your name is Hermes?”</p><p>“No, that’s stu… Anyway, get in.”</p><p>Achilles hesitates, “Thanks, but I never bathe in hot water. It makes a warrior soft.”</p><p>“Well, now you do, because that hole of yours needs to heal.”</p><p>“Achilles, you are awake!” a voice exclaims as the sound of trailing hooves comes to a halt abruptly. Chiron scrapes the dirt under his hooves in an extremely nonchalant, I-heard-nothing-about-holes manner, “I didn’t know you two were, eh, bathing.”</p><p>“He means the hole in my chest,” Achilles blurts out.</p><p>“Of course,” Chiron says with a straight face.</p><p>“Of course,” nods the man.</p><p>For some reason, Achilles thinks he has “that dude is absolutely not the first to know we fucked” flailing on his face.</p><p>Achilles submerges himself into the water that smells of ambrosia. Silence ensues until he blurts out, “You haven’t told me your name.”</p><p>“He can’t. Nobody can anymore,” says Chiron.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>The man scrubs Achilles’s neck with a sea sponge, his gaze lowered, his expression obscured in the rising steam.</p><p>Chiron says, “You must be wondering why you are alive. How much do you remember?”</p><p>“I was cut down by an arrow. Outside of Troy. Paris. Apollo.”</p><p>He feels a tremor from the man’s hand, now on his chest.</p><p>“What about before that?”</p><p>“Rage, “his breathing quickens, “Everything was red.”</p><p>Chiron nods, “Do you remember where the rage came from?”</p><p>“No, “Achilles feels the hand on his chest is, unmistakably, tremoring.</p><p>“Chiron,” says the man, his voice shaking.</p><p>“I just realized that I’ve got some figs to harvest,” Chiron glances at the snow outside, “Eh, students to teach.” He gives the man a final gaze before trotting away.</p><p>“Are you okay?” Achilles asks.</p><p>To his surprise, the man laughs.</p><p>“You are asking if I am ok? With that giant hole in your heart?” He lifts his gaze to meet Achilles, the corner of his mouth still twitching from the laugh. His eyes are red and filled with tears. Achilles feels his hand shaking through the sponge.</p><p>“Achilles. You fucking idiot.” The man tosses the sponge into the tub. He stands there, hands clasping on the edge so tightly the wood creaks.</p><p>“You knew what would happen if you take avenge. You knew your death would follow Hector’s. You knew it. You knew it all along. Only a fucking idiot would choose a stupid, useless, dying mortal instead of eternal glory,” Tears rolled down his cheeks, falling onto Achilles’ bare chest.</p><p>“I’m not sure what you are talking about,” Achilles says.</p><p>If this did anything, the man looks even sadder and angrier. He lets out a deep breath, “Of course you don’t. Sorry, I’m just a bit -”</p><p>He fetches the sponge again, but this time he hesitates, “The wounds on your, eh, buttocks and, also needs cleansing. I can’t leave it to you because the dislocation in your shoulder has just started to heal.”</p><p>Achilles hears himself gulp.</p><p>“I don’t want you to do to you anything you don’t like,” the man continues slowly, “So you get to choose between me and Chiron. He’s the best doctor ever lived, he -”</p><p>“You.” Achilles’s tongue betrays him before he realizes what he said.</p><p>The man’s hand reaches underwater. His touch is gentle and agile, as if he has done this countless times. His fingers slip under Achilles’ back and between his legs, cleansing him of dirt and blood that still smell of battlefield. His hands are strong and steady, but not callused like Achilles’; They are the hands of a healer, someone who has seen no less bloodshed and death than a warrior, but still comes out tender and soft.</p><p>The young man’s touch feels so right, as if they are a pair of swords that meant to be wielded together. Achilles lets out a moan, so instinctive and natural, as if his body remembers something he does not. The man’s hand freezes in place. Achilles opens his eyes and sees himself in the man’s hazel eyes. They are almost completely dark now.</p><p>The familiarity is overwhelming; yet when he tries to recall the man’s dark curls, his sharp jawline with a tiny, distinct curve, his hazel eyes and beautiful bronze skin, his memories give him nothing but a white void.</p><p>“Do I know you?” Achilles asks.</p><p>This is meant to be an innocent question, not an incentive whatsoever, yet the man’s eyes darkened further. He leans over and whispers in Achilles’ ear, “You do.”</p><p>Achilles raises his jaw. It’s the game face he used to stare down Agamemnon, to cow Paris before the walls of Troy.</p><p>“Prove it.”</p><p>Achilles lets out a small gasp as the man grabs his cock.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Prove it.”</p><p> </p><p>Achilles lets out a small gasp as the man grabs his cock, but he quickly regains composure as the man strokes his length. He’s gentle, almost excessively. His grip is loose and his pace languid. It feels as if he does not want Achilles to come.</p><p> </p><p>Achilles smirks, “I doubt it.”</p><p> </p><p> “I don’t want your stitches to break.”</p><p> </p><p>Achilles raises an eyebrow, “That’ll only happen if I lose control.”</p><p> </p><p>“And you won’t?”</p><p> </p><p>“I never lose control,” Achilles proclaims with confidence, “You should know that since you claim to know me.”</p><p> </p><p>The man glances at the pallet, lips curl into a smile, “Of course. You always stay perfectly still, dead-seriously chanting the deeds of Heracles as you come – very Aristos-Achaion-y. In contrast, I would burrow my head in your neck, shouting out your name as I spill on your stomach.”</p><p> </p><p>Achilles laughs, “I would have believed you if I remembered doing something like that with a man even for once.”</p><p> </p><p>The man laughs too, “You better do not. Stay still, or I’ll stop.”</p><p> </p><p>His pace quickens, thumb caressing the head of Achilles’ cock. He strokes Achilles with the agility and skillfulness that no doubt comes from long-term practice.</p><p>He seems to know every little quirk of Achilles’ body. When his stroke reaches the base of his cock, he fondles Achilles’ balls with his fingertips, to which Achilles responds by swallowing a cry. The man smirks, palming the head of Achilles’ cock where it is already slick.</p><p> </p><p>The shape of his grip on Achilles’ pleasure, the pinch, tap and fondle of his fingers, the way his lips part in triumph and his gaze fixed on Achilles’ lips whenever the latter fails to repress a tiny whimper, are all too deft and familiar, as if he and Achilles have been lovers their whole lives. Achilles bits his lip, stifling a desperate moan as stars begin to swirl before his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>All of a sudden, the man stops. Achilles is close, so close that it takes all his battle-trained willpower to not thrust his hips into the man’s hand.</p><p> </p><p>He growls through clenched teeth, “Why stop?”</p><p> </p><p>“You moved.”</p><p> </p><p>Achilles barely recognizes the reflection of himself in the man’s eyes. Cheeks flushed and hair tousled on his forehead, bottom lip swollen, legs apart and trembling.</p><p> </p><p>At least the man is not as collected as he pretends to be, neither. He breathes sharply, his erection bulging under the tunic.</p><p> </p><p>Achilles swears as he grabs the man’s hand on his cock. With one final stroke, he sends himself over the edge, shuddering as he spills in the water and on their hands.</p><p> </p>
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